


A Nervous Man In A Lonely Room

by henrywinters



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Autumn, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-04 18:24:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henrywinters/pseuds/henrywinters
Summary: Set somewhere in the 60's, in a building, on a street, so typical it could be anywhere, two men meet and fall in love. Perhaps, it is not so bad to be lonesome in the city. That way you will know when your heart beats for someone new.





	A Nervous Man In A Lonely Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chtkwn (mooshu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooshu/gifts).



> whew! my first c/mmission! and funded by one of the sweetest people i’ve met on this site who has shown me the utmost support. i’m very happy to have written something for someone so kind ~ and I hope it’s all they were hoping for!
> 
> this is much kinder than my usual work. if you’re here for fluff and love and cute leohyuk antics, look no further: you have reached the pinnacle of henrywinters fluff factor.
> 
> ps. i made a spotify playlist to help my inspiration and it ended up being such a good playlist for the fic  
> [here's a link if you're interested](https://open.spotify.com/user/synthbin/playlist/0OZArtLqaVwH5XKEEYD54v?si=VgJXhWTCRi6imNdKBNYQAQ)

The sweet secret of a summer place  
Is that it’s anywhere  
When two people share  
All their hopes, all their dreams

— **Andy Williams** , a summer place

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was an unremarkable mid autumn morning with the sun alive behind great, heaping cloud as fine as gossamer. The autumn festival was starting. It opened slowly, so like a sleeping child on a cold, winter morning; the machinery came alive gradually, then all at once, as if sparked to life by the warmth of the day. Down the street and not far away, Han Sanghyuk walked the leaf littered sidewalks with a lighted cigarette, listening, idly, to the tinny music of the calliope. The music came on the wind and urged him further, so it was as if he was carried by it. He walked a charming gait with a hand atop his hat to keep from blowing away; he skipped over the cracks in the sidewalks as the leaves skittered with the wind, muted by that tireless, whistling tune.

 

After a time, he came up to the large silver fence that blocked the street from the festival, and he could see through the spaces between the bars the bright colors of the carousel. He saw the shining white of the Ferris wheel. It was all very beautiful up close.

 

“ _There_ you are.”

 

From across the road, on the other side of the fence, Jaehwan came up to the entrance. He was already dressed in uniform: a bright mosaic of colors with a collard striped shirt and green trousers. The uniform granted him a spirited appearance, not much livelier than his usual temperament, but charming when surrounded by the bright festival lights.

 

Jaehwan opened the gate long enough for Sanghyuk to pass through, then closed it up again.

 

He said, “I waited all morning for you.”

 

“It’s still morning.” Sanghyuk grinned. “How can you be so dramatic right away? Can’t I have a minute to process?’

 

“Oh, _sure_. Process all you want. I don’t give a damn.” Jaehwan took Sanghyuk’s arm and pulled him through the park. The music was very loud now. “I called this morning, but you didn’t answer. I thought, well, if you were asleep you’d wake if I called again.” He stopped. “But you didn’t.”

 

“I turned off the telephone.”

 

“Why would you do something stupid like that?”

 

“I was up all night because the person above me.”

 

“What about them?’

 

“They moved in late in the night and I heard them all the time up there, moving around, like they were waltzing the room. They didn’t stop until late, so I turned off the phone.”

 

“You knew I would call,” Jaehwan said. “That’s why you turned it off.” He continued across the park with Sanghyuk close behind him.

 

Sanghyuk laughed when he spoke, his hands deep inside his trouser pockets. “You aren’t _really_ sore, are you? You’re only pretending to be.”

 

Jaehwan turned to him. His nose was red from the cold and his cheeks red from the smile that lighted his face. “Why don’t you just get into uniform so the boss man doesn’t get on you for being late.”

 

“Sure,” Sanghyuk said. “Why not.”

 

It did not take long to get out of the clothes he had come in and into the colorful uniform that was an exact copy of what all the festival employees wore. He didn’t feel very well to be so colored, but it was impossible to complain when everyone looked just as foolish.

 

At the snack booth where he worked, Jaehwan was leaning on the counter-top, speaking to Wonsik, the mechanics man. He was very different from Jaehwan. Where Jaehwan was light, Wonsik was dark, with hair black as night slicked back from his tan face. A curlicue of hair lay across his forehead, never moving, even when the wind blew.

 

Wonsik brightened at the sight of Sanghyuk. It did not take much to make him brighten in the slightest, but that morning he was especially bright.

 

“Did Jaehwan tell you?” he asked.

 

“No, what is it?”

 

Jaehwan laughed. “It’s nothing, really.”

 

“Nothing?” Wonsik said to him. Then, to Sanghyuk: “In the spring, we’re going on a trip.”

 

“Where?” Sanghyuk asked.

 

“Haven’t decided.”

 

“But it’ll be somewhere lovely.”

 

“That’s right,” Wonsik smiled. “Why don’t you come with us, Hyukie?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. I doubt I will.”

 

Jaehwan pulled himself onto the counter and said, swinging his legs, “He’s too boring for that.”

 

Wonsik shook his head. “Why don’t you be nice?” He took a cigarette from behind his ear. He lighted it and blew the smoke up to the sky. “It’ll be busy to-day. Friday, isn’t it?”

 

Jaehwan said that it was.

 

“Yep. It’ll be busy as hell once the schools let out. Better get ready for it, then.” He rapped his knuckles on the counter and said good-by.

 

Because it was mostly older folk that came through the park so early in the morning, it was never very busy. The snack counter was ignored for most of the day and made it awfully difficult to pass the time. Sanghyuk leaned on the counter and felt sorry for himself for being so damned tired. It was a nice morning; the wind blew cold and he was not so hot even with all the hot oil around him. But he was just so damned tired. He said as much to Jaehwan who was not really listening.

 

“Why don’t you ever talk about something _interesting_? Do you want to hear something _interesting_ , Hyukie?”

 

“Go on.”

 

“I think Wonsik is madly in love with me.”

 

“He probably is.”

 

“He wants to go on this wildly romantic trip together, but I think he’ll probably propose and we’ll end up eloping somewhere across the Mediterranean. What do you think?”

 

“Hm,” Sanghyuk canted his head thoughtfully. “What about Vienna? I heard Vienna is really something. Maybe even more romantic than Spain.”

 

“I don’t know anything about that.” Jaehwan’s face was very pink and his eyes lighted up like shop windows at night. He was quiet a long moment, lost in some daydream Sanghyuk was no part of. Then he said, “You really should come along. You can keep me out of all the trouble I’ll probably get myself into. And we can go wherever you want to go. Isn’t there somewhere you’ve always wanted to be?”

 

“I haven’t thought much of the word,” Sanghyuk said truthfully.

 

“There isn’t _any_ where you would go?”

 

“I’d stay right here. I like it here.”

 

“You _are_ terribly boring.”

 

Sanghyuk laughed. He listened, with his chin resting in the palm of one hand, as Jaehwan dreamed aloud of places that had little hold on Sanghyuk’s heart. All the time he watched the turning of the big Ferris wheel, its bright whiteness like a beacon in the autumn gloom.

 

The morning went that way as the mornings, quite honestly, always did. Each moment was a moment felt slowly, until the sun shifted and all the clouds dispersed into after noon light. Then the evening came with the small laughter of children ringing like the silver bells of winter. They came in small clusters like cloudbursts, their voices rising melodic against the current of the music and of the whirling of the rides.

 

It was a fine night, set aflame by the ghost light of the carousel, with the smell of boiling sweets thick on the wind. And when it came to an end, as many good things often do, it was with a lingering excitement unmatched by tiredness.

 

 

 

 

 

Sanghyuk had been living in the brownstone apartments since he’d come to the city, years before, and the quiet walk home did not bother him anymore. He marveled at the night and at the moon. It was very lovely to look at through the bare trees with their arms lifted upward, stretching up to that great, white light. And in the gutters, all across the black-top of the street, the light collected in untroubled pools deep as any sea; Sanghyuk was careful to step over them.

 

It was impossible to know the time and because of the dark, he could not read the time on his wrist. He imagined it to be rather early, but went quickly anyway, wanting to be out of the cold. He went up the street and over the swell of the road so like a hillside and, shortly, came to the brownstone apartments. They were a massive building as old as the city with a wrought iron gate kept shut by a rusted latch that never did stay closed. It was through that loud, screeching gate he went and then up the steps and to the door where he was suddenly met by another.

 

This other, older, man piqued immediately and asked Sanghyuk, “You wouldn’t happen to have the key, would you?” He was unfamiliar and terribly handsome in a suit too large for him.

 

“I had one,” he said, “but it seems I’ve lost it already.”

 

“That’s all right. Lots of people do.”

 

Sanghyuk dug his hand into his pocket at the same moment the man offered his hand with a smile. He said, “You can call me Taekwoon.”

 

“All right. Nice to meet you.”

 

Taekwoon had a hand that was warm despite the cold with all the bones in his fingers slim and delicate as if at any moment, Sanghyuk could take those very fingers and snap them like the branches of a fruit tree. He was careful with Taekwoon’s hand. He was as careful as one may be careful of a smallish animal.

 

In the lobby, where it was warm, they stood together a short moment where the letter boxes lined the wall. Then Taekwoon pocketed his hands and said, “Thanks so much. I’d have stayed out there all night.”

 

“Probably, but it’s nothing.”

 

“Well, I appreciate it.” He went up the stairs and called out, “Good-night,” as Sanghyuk looked after him. He thought Taekwoon must be someone wildly important. It wasn’t just anyone who walked around dressed that way.

 

With a burst of daring, Sanghyuk called up, “Wait a minute!” He smiled with a wave of embarrassment touching him deeply. “I have a spare key in my apartment. Why don’t you keep it? At least until you find another.”

 

“Well, I. . .”

 

Sanghyuk bound up the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor where his apartment was. He did not think to give the key in his hand, but rather went inside and, leaving the door open, proceeded to root through stacks of newspapers on the floor. “Just give me a moment to find it.”

 

From the doorway, Taekwoon looked into the apartment. “Did you just move in, as well?”

 

“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” Sanghyuk took in the room the way Taekwoon might have looked at it and he found it quite boring. Because he did not own much furniture, what furniture he did own was packed away in the bedroom. But there, in the space between them, was only a coffee table and a modest white couch. The table was stacked tall with magazines. The rotary phone lay silent on a suitcase in the corner. There was a single bookcase.

 

“No, I’ve lived here quite a while.” He was quick to leave the spotlight and said, “So it was you I heard last night.”

 

“Afraid so. I hope I didn’t keep you awake.”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Sanghyuk left the newspapers and searched the bookcase and found the key between pages of a paperback he hardly remembered reading. “Here it is!”

 

“I’ll be sure to return it.”

 

“That’s all right. I never lose mine.”

 

“I’ll return it anyway.”

 

“Well, if it’ll make you feel better.”

 

Sanghyuk waited, thinking. Then he asked, “Do you want something to drink? I can make coffee.”

 

“It’s rather late.”

 

“You’re right.”

 

“But, if you don’t mind, would it be all right if I used the telephone?”

 

“I don’t mind at all.” He instructed Taekwoon to the rotary phone, then went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. “If there isn’t a dial tone, you’ll have to plug it in. I can’t remember if I did this morning or not.”

 

“Do you always turn the telephone off?”

 

“Only when I’m tired.”

 

He left Taekwoon alone in the parlor. In the kitchen, he lighted a cigarette and watched the kettle until Taekwoon came up behind him, rather sheepishly.

 

He said, “They didn’t answer.”

 

“Do you want to try again in a little while?”

 

“Why not. Do you have another cigarette?”

 

Sanghyuk lighted Taekwoon’s cigarette then opened the small French window above the sink and sat on the counter with his feet in the sink and his elbow rested on one knee. The air was very cool and refreshing and took the smoke in large, sweeping blows out into the courtyard.

 

They smoked quietly together.

 

After the cigarettes were finished and the kettle began to whistle, Taekwoon pushed off the counter where he had been leaned and took the kettle off.

 

“So you don’t have to move,” he said quietly.

 

“I have tea in the cupboard. Up there—yes, that’s it. And the cups, I’m afraid, are in the dish washer.”

 

“Are they clean?”

 

“They might be.”

 

But they were not. Taekwoon laughed when he searched for the soap, but was told Sanghyuk had not bought any in quite a while. “What are we to do?”

 

“I’m afraid we can’t do anything.”

 

“I have a few cups upstairs.”

 

Taekwoon went and returned very quickly with matching ceramic mugs that were too hot to hold. So they left them on the counter to cool. In the parlor, they sat together on the small sofa and did not talk for a short while as Sanghyuk turned on the libertyphone and played the radio.

 

“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” Taekwoon said.

 

“I don’t mind. It’s better than not being bothered at all.”

 

“So you live alone?”

 

“I do. Don’t you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sanghyuk lighted another cigarette for them each and took a small metal ashtray from beneath the sofa. He held it between them.

 

“Are you going to tell me about yourself?” he asked. “I bet you have a wonderful story, what with how you’re dressed. You look very important that way and I imagine if you moved all the way out here, to this big place, you must have come for a reason.”

 

“I don’t really want to talk about myself.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t usually talk about myself with people.”

 

“So you’re the mysterious type, is that it?” Sanghyuk pulled his legs up under himself and leaned rather closely to Taekwoon. Outside, through the open window, the sound of a passing truck came loud as thunder. “I’ve never liked the mysterious types. They try so hard to pique your interest and then never have anything important to say after. But if you tell me, I’ll try and be interested anyway. I won’t be so rude.”

 

When Taekwoon still would not respond, Sanghyuk pestered lightly, “At least tell me what you do for _work_. That isn’t too revealing, is it?”

 

“I compose.”

 

“What, music?”

 

“Well, sort of.” His face filled with color. “I guess I’m not _really_ a composer. I only write music, but I write it often enough that I like to give myself the title. It isn’t true, though.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“No one has ever bought anything I’ve created. So I don’t think I have the right to call myself anything yet.” He filled his mouth with smoke and blew it slowly, thoughtfully, in a stream above his head. “It’s the same as someone calling themselves a writer when no one ever _reads_ what they write. Are they really a writer then?”

 

“I would think so.”

 

“That can’t be right,” Taekwoon said. “Because if it is, then anyone could call themselves a writer. There has to be a difference or else nothing would have any meaning.”

 

“Well, I guess you’re a little right.”

 

“Sure I’m right.”

 

“Are you always so profound?” Sanghyuk teased.

 

Taekwoon shrank away. It was incredible how small he could make himself appear. “I told you I don’t really talk about myself.”

 

“I’m sorry. I was only teasing you a little. Don’t you like being teased? It’s all fun if I meant no harm.” Sanghyuk left and came back with the tea. He set both cups on the coffee table with the ashtray between them. “I think you’re a little right with what you said, but if you write music and you think it’s swell music, I would say. . .well, I’d say, yes, you’re a composer.”

 

They drank their tea.

 

“Now,” Sanghyuk declared, “I take back what I said before about mysterious people being so boring. You aren’t boring at all. I think you’re _very_ interesting.”

 

Taekwoon smiled. His eyes lifted pronouncedly. It made his face very bright and absolutely charming. Sanghyuk thought his heart may stop if ever he saw such a smile again.

 

“If only I believed you.”

 

“Maybe you’re right not to, but I _do_ mean it.”

 

It was after the tea that Taekwoon made another phone call and this one, like the first, went unanswered. “Well,” he said, “I guess it’s lousy to wait around like this. I’ll go on upstairs and maybe I’ll see you around?”

 

“You will.”

 

Sanghyuk walked him to the door and held it open and felt very good for thinking to hold the door open that way. Then they said good-night.

 

It was as Taekwoon turned to leave and before Sanghyuk could get the door shut that a man came up the stairs, wearing a large, expensive coat. He called out to Taekwoon and blossomed with color as he smiled.

 

“Where _were_ you? I waited all this time for you!” He lifted something silvery from his pocket and placed it in Taekwoon’s hand. “Look what you left in the cab. Aren’t you _relieved_ I found it before the driver took off?”

 

It was the downstairs key.

 

“Oh,” Taekwoon laughed. It was a painful sound that Sanghyuk could not help but smile at. He was awfully embarrassed. “Thank you.”

 

Sanghyuk closed the door. He thought he heard a small, protesting sound, but did not bother to open the door again. He felt odd to intrude. Thus, he lay on the floor amid the magazines and the newspapers and listened to the radio long into the night. Then he went to bed.

 

 

 

 

 

As it appeared, Taekwoon was a man of his word. On Monday morning, Sanghyuk woke to knocking on the front door, but by the time he had climbed out of bed and dressed himself, the hallway was empty. Tacked to the door on a small note of paper was the key. On the back of the note, written in a heavy, childish hand: _You really_ _are_ _a dream for helping a guy out. Stop by to-night for a drink, if you’d like. Taekwoon._ Sanghyuk replied, on the same note of paper, _I hope_ _eight_ _o’clock will do—see you then._

 

Because it was a Monday, there was little hurry to get to work. Sanghyuk walked by the park and for a short time watched the horses. In the autumn, before the cold really settled in, there was always horses. People riding them, walking with them; a few police officers in uniform and, perhaps, a few without. In the early morning, everyone looked the same, but not the horses. They were always more pleasant in the mornings than any other time. He smoked near the stables until the cigarette was spent and then continued around the park, walking with hands bunched in his pockets and the wind against his face. He had forgotten to wear a hat and his head was terribly cold. He flipped up the collar of his windbreaker and pulled it up around his face. It was as he was coming out of the park that he spotted, down by the fountain, a man he thought _must_ be Taekwoon. From so far, it was difficult to tell, but his was a face not easily overlooked; and even from that distance, Sanghyuk was certain it was him.

 

He was not alone.

 

With him, in the same expensive coat from the night before, was the man that had brought the key. They stood arm in arm at the fountain. It was a large stone fountain with lions all around it; jet streams of water poured out of their massive, yawning mouths. Then they watched the horses. All the time Sanghyuk stood with his hands gripping the collar of the windbreaker and the wind in his hair and his eyes burning from the cold. He thought them happy—they certainty _appeared_ happy. And it was with the smallest hint of jealousy that Sanghyuk left the park.

 

 

 

 

 

That evening, on the tired walk through the dark, he stopped and bought the only thing he could afford—a bottle of Riesling, a handful of kiosk tulips—and went home in the cold, holding the flowers inside the windbreaker to keep them from falling apart.

 

He was too nervous to go upstairs before it was time and so sat listening to the radio, with a glass of milk and his feet on the coffee table. It seemed a great, long time before eight o’clock came round and when it did, his belly was so full of knots, Sanghyuk didn’t think he ought to go. But he could hear the shuffling of feet on the floor upstairs. It was a sound that came from everywhere. It delayed him further until finally, ten minutes later, Sanghyuk collected the courage to climb the stairs.

 

At the door, he was greeted by a cloud of cigarette smoke and a very loud, very popular song, from the radio. It was a terrific song he loved very much, but for what ever reason, he did not tell Taekwoon so.

 

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” Taekwoon smiled. “What’s all this?” He took the wine and the flowers and the smile never went away, but his lower lip trembled as if the weight of that smile was too much.

 

He confessed, “I don’t drink. But I won’t mind having a small one with you, if you’d like me to.”

 

“Oh,” Sanghyuk laughed. “I don’t drink either. I thought this is what people get each other when they’ve just moved in.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I haven’t met enough people to know if it works. Did it work? Do you feel welcomed now?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Do you really?”

 

“Yes, thank you.”

 

They shared a smile and in so few words, their barriers were broken and nothing felt strange at all.

 

Taekwoon set the wine in the kitchen sink and the flowers in a bowl of icy water. He told Sanghyuk, “Take your shoes off, take your coat off—I don’t really care _what_ you do, but don’t just _stand_ there.”

 

Sanghyuk left his coat on a peg by the door and came into the apartment, light on his feet, as if carried by a strong wind. He came into the kitchen and watched Taekwoon heat water for coffee. At the breakfast bar, on a red velvet stool, Sanghyuk sat.

 

He said, “Your husband seems like quite a severe man. Where is he?”

 

Taekwoon stopped the faucet. “Husband?”

 

“Sure! The man from the other night.”

 

“Oh—oh, no. He isn’t my husband.”

 

“I saw you this morning.” Sanghyuk folded his arms on the bar and then lowered his head so his chin rest atop them. “Or at least. . . I _think_ it was you. At the park? Near the fountain.”

 

Taekwoon was not afraid to show his utter, utter surprise. He laughed when he said, “He isn’t my husband. It isn’t anything like that.”

 

“Nothing like that at all?”

 

“Truly, nothing.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t _dream_ of judging you if that’s what you’re afraid of. Not for a husband, anyway, or—I mean, a not-husband, and definitely not for a truly-not-husband. I have better things to judge than that!”

 

Sanghyuk came off the red velvet stool and crossed the room to the radio where another song had started to play. Taekwoon looked after him, incredulously.

 

“Anyway,” Sanghyuk said. “Tell me all about your day and then I’ll tell you about mine. Let’s pretend we aren’t perfect strangers and we can play like old friends who have been away for a long time.”

 

Taekwoon stood behind him. “That sounds rather nice. All right. Now we’re old friends. Let me tell you about the professor who gave me a call this morning.”

 

“Yes, tell me! Tell me everything!”

 

Sanghyuk fell gracefully into a large chair with his feet kicked over the arm rest. He watched Taekwoon as he spoke. He watched Taekwoon light a cigarette. All the time his heart beat deeply and quickly, from a place not in his chest but in his head.

 

“He wants to purchase my music.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Isn’t it shocking? I haven’t been here a week and already it’s turning out better than I ever imagined.”

 

“What did you tell him?”

 

“I said I would talk with my manager.”

 

“You have a _manager_?”

 

“Not at all. I only wanted to sound like I did, so he would think I have proper experience.”

 

“That’s pretty damn smart. Want to light me one of those?”

 

Taekwoon lighted him a cigarette.

 

“What’s to become of you after you sell this song?” Sanghyuk asked. “Once you’re _truly_ a composer. What, then?” He was teasing; and it delighted him to see Taekwoon knew it.

 

He played along gallantly. “I suppose when that happens, I’ll have to do what any great composer would do and run off into the woods and live in the dark. I will only come out when I have new music to sell.”

 

“Sounds like a wonderful idea.”

 

Taekwoon lost his smile. He said, very seriously, “I do hope he purchases something. I don’t know _what_ I’ll do if he doesn’t. I’ll probably become terrifically depressed and never write again.”

 

“That’s a bit grim.”

 

“Is it?” He left and came back with the coffee.

 

A quiet fell into the apartment then. It was not a strange quiet, but rather one like an open-ended question. There was an air of expectation. It was sooty and heavy and nearly tangible.

 

Sanghyuk waved a hand as if to wave away that pressing feeling of inquiry. He said, “I lied earlier. I won’t tell you anything about my day, because my day was pointless—as they often are this time of the year. Nothing happened. Nothing at _all_.”

 

“If you saw me this morning, you must have been out. Where were you going?’

 

“I was going to work.”

 

Taekwoon held his coffee like it was the most precious thing in the world to him. He cradled it and let the edge of the cup rest against his lower lip. He looked over that cup as if looking over some expanse of land. “Where do you work?”

 

Sanghyuk told him.

 

It was not that Sanghyuk did not care for the festival, but that he spent an awful lot of time there. He did not want to bring it up further. He sat up in the chair and took the coffee Taekwoon had heated for him from the table. He blew on the coffee and through a curtain of steam, he said, “So why did you move here? Or is that too personal to ask?”

“I wanted to get a head-start on my work.”

 

“In a boring little place like here?”

 

“What’s wrong with it?”

 

“Oh, nothing’s _wrong_ with it. But it isn’t really a city, is it? Or a town. It’s a weird cross between the two with loads of boring people filling it up.” He drank the coffee and felt like an ass. Taekwoon was clearly discouraged by his statement.

 

“But don’t mind me,” Sanghyuk added. “I’ve been here so long that I’m so used to it, like an old relative that isn’t _particularly_ interesting, so it’s difficult to see why someone else would think they are. You still love them in the end, of course.”

 

Taekwoon did not say anything. For what seemed like a long time, they drank the coffee and listened to the radio and did not speak. Sanghyuk sat in the chair with his head hung back, watching the ceiling and all the odd shadows interspersed there. He reached out an arm to the table lamp with its beaded fringe and put his hand in the line of the light to see the freakish shadows his fingers made on the walls.

 

Taekwoon watched him all the time. Then, out of the blue, he stood and declared, “I’ll play you something I’ve written. Come this way.”

 

Sanghyuk followed Taekwoon to the bedroom where he kept a double bed and a vanity cluttered with men’s cologne. There was a Matilda lamp on a chest of drawers alongside a smallish table, tall with books. Then, in the corner, decorated in odd collectibles with a purple, fringed towel on the bench, was the piano. It was an old thing—surely from before the war—and it sounded lovely when Taekwoon played it.

 

He played many songs and played in such a way, it was as if they were all one, large song meant to be strung together in a dream-like sequence. Sanghyuk was so sure of this that when Taekwoon told him: “I wouldn’t normally play them that way, but I was wanting to show-off a bit,” Sanghyuk simply did not believe him.

 

“You ought to play them all together for something. Like an opera—why are you laughing? Don’t _laugh_.”

 

“Have you ever _been_ to an opera?”

 

“Not once,” he said proudly. “But you made something really nice. I stand by what I said even if you _do_ laugh about it.”

 

They went onto the fire escape for a cigarette and stayed there quite a while, watching the skyline and all the passing cars. There were not many planes that passed over that part of the city, so when one came over then, Sanghyuk tilted his head back and watched it with all the austerity of a perplexed child.

 

He said, “Where do you think it’s going?”

 

“South America.”

 

“Would _you_ go to South America?”

 

“I think I would stay here for now.”

“Yes,” Sanghyuk mused. “Me too.”

 

The hours passed that way. They did not talk of any important thing, but talked quite a lot about many things, and by the end of the night Sanghyuk knew so much about Taekwoon he thought he could start a book about him. He said so when it came time to leave.

 

Taekwoon smiled. “Don’t write it. It wouldn’t sell.”

 

“But would _you_ buy it?”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Then,” he declared, “it would sell.Anyway, I should go.”

 

“All right.”

 

“Is it very late?”

 

“Not _too_ late.”

 

“Good,” Sanghyuk grinned. “I would feel bad if it was.”

 

“I have a feeling you wouldn’t.”

 

He tossed his head back as he laughed and took his coat from the peg by the door. “You’re right,” he said between bursts of giggles. “I wouldn’t. But, anyway, I _should_ leave, so I’ll be seeing you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Many days went by, a whole week of them, before Sanghyuk saw Taekwoon again. He had been at the intersection outside the apartments, carrying back the groceries, when he spotted the familiar slope of Taekwoon’s shoulders. He was there, again, with the man from before. Because they were a handful of paces before Sanghyuk, they came to the apartments together. Neither man said hello and thus, feeling odd but not entirely dismayed, Sanghyuk went in alone.

 

During the week, there had been a knocking from the upstairs. It came in such irregular bursts that Sanghyuk had thought nothing of it. But when the knocking had increased, so had his curiosity, until one evening, after hearing the melodic tap, tapping, from the upstairs, Sanghyuk had taken the long handle of a broom and tapped back on the ceiling. He had been smitten when Taekwoon returned the knock. They had played around that way until the time passed and they had lost interest. That day, after seeing Taekwoon in the street, Sanghyuk waited long enough to find something worth while on the radio, then he took the broom and tapped on the ceiling. A response did not come right away, but rather after a long pause.

 

Satisfied, Sanghyuk did not think of Taekwoon again until the weekend, when a loud, excited knock came at the door.

 

It was late enough in the morning that Sanghyuk was not asleep. He answered the door with a long flannel held over his bare chest.

 

Almost at once he was greeted by Taekwoon’s outstretched hand. The hand held something. It was an important looking paper.

 

Taekwoon, seemingly too excited to speak, watched Sanghyuk closely as he read the paper. It was from a local university; and they had contacted Taekwoon with hopes of purchasing a piece of music.

 

“Look at that,” Sanghyuk said, wildly impressed. “You’re a real composer now.”

 

Taekwoon came into the apartment with an air of fiery excitement.

 

“There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

 

“I’m too emotional for coffee.”

 

Sanghyuk went to the bedroom where he blow-dried his hair, stripped out of the old clothes and put on something new, something a little warmer for the mornings had become quite cold very quickly. All the time as he readied for work, Taekwoon sat on the double bed by the window. He looked wonderfully at home there, without a suit or even an overcoat. He wore only a sweater and a pair of grey trousers.

 

Taekwoon said, “I almost want to run upstairs and open the bottle of wine.”

 

“You still have it? I’m impressed.”

 

“We should celebrate.”

 

“You’re very right. How about to-night? I’ll take you to dinner.”

 

“That’s fine. But it has to be somewhere I can wear just this. I don’t want it to be too fancy. I wouldn’t like that at all.”

 

Sanghyuk felt an overwhelming amount of pride. How silly it was, he thought, to feel such a way, so deeply, for a man he hardly considered a friend.

 

He told Taekwoon, “I don’t get home until after six. You’ll have to wait for me.”

 

“I’ll wait all night if you want.”

 

“You’re saying stupid things now, because you’re excited.”

 

“I won’t deny it.”

 

Sanghyuk closed the bathroom door to finish his hair, speaking loudly with all the walls repeating his words back to him. “You have to be careful not to say stupid things. Sometimes people take them the wrong way—or maybe not the wrong way, but a different way, and then you’ll end up with a real mess on your hands. There isn’t anything fun about having a mess on your hands, take it from me.”

 

He opened the door and posed in the doorway. “How do I look?”

 

“Wonderful.” But he was distracted. “Listen, about the other day.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. I know you aren’t very friendly when you have people around. I’ve noticed! I think I’ve noticed just about everything about you.”

 

“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

 

A spark of cold came to Sanghyuk’s heart. He felt very stupid and could not explain even to himself, why. “I don’t have any impression at all. It’s hard to have a wrong one that way.”

 

“I mean about Hakyeon. He’s a good friend—if I can call him a friend. He’s helped me a great deal, but it isn’t anything _personal_ , you understand?’

 

“So that’s his name? Anyway, I don’t give a damn. It isn’t any of my business.”

 

“No, listen to me.” Taekwoon placed himself between Sanghyuk and the doorway. He said, very seriously, “I like knowing you. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t overlook you in the slightest. I think, well—to be totally honest with you—I think if Hakyeon wasn’t around all the time, I’d be down here with you. More often than not. But he _is_ around and he’s awfully strange about certain things.”

 

“I already told you, Taekwoon, I don’t _care_. Not one bit.” He walked out of the bedroom as if attempting to walk from the conversation, but the farther he went, the heavier his body felt. Frankly, he did care. He cared an awful lot.

 

They smoked in the kitchen by the open window and decided where they would meet for dinner. Taekwoon would have to go up to the university in the evening, but promised he would not be gone too late. They would meet at the intersection outside Woolworth’s. When Taekwoon, perplexed, asked where that was, Sanghyuk wrote the address on a paper napkin. It was touching the way Taekwoon folded the napkin neatly into his hand, as if he feared losing it in the short walk to his own apartment.

 

As he opened the door, Sanghyuk said, “I’ll try not to be late, all right?” and at once saw the familiar coat from all the times before. Hakyeon was climbing the stairs to the third floor.

 

He shut the door at once.

 

“Your husband is going upstairs—right now.”

 

“He _isn’t_.”

 

Sanghyuk shoved him toward the bedroom, persisting he use the window—how would he explain to Hakyeon having been in another man’s apartment?—laughing all the time as Taekwoon pounded, breathlessly, up the fire escape.

 

“I’ll see you to-night!” Sanghyuk called.

 

“Yes, to-night!” He was gone.

 

In the hallway, on the stairs, he heard the way Taekwoon’s door came open with a suddenness, his breathless, unsteady, exclaim of: “I _thought_ I heard you out here.”

 

 

 

 

 

That night, in cold November, started as ordinarily as any before it. The wind was bitterly cold, so that even when he pulled up the collar of the windbreaker, Sanghyuk was reduced to shivering. The festival had been slow that day. Partly from the cold, but mostly due to it being the middle of the week. The day had eased by at remarkable slowness that settled into him and would not leave, even as he went down the avenues toward Woolworth’s. But at the sight of Taekwoon, alone at a window table in the restaurant, with all the rest of the room lighted up behind him, Sanghyuk brightened.

 

Taekwoon stood when Sanghyuk came to the table and kissed first one cheek, then the other. Then they sat across each other as the waiter took their drink order. They decided, because of the circumstances, they could afford to be frivolous. They ordered the house wine.

 

They did not eat as much as they talked and talked of everything: the passing of the war which neither of them had fought in and the weather that would plummet and send them both reeling when winter came. They talked of the university that claimed to be one of few leading art schools of the country. It was this fact alone that overwhelmed Taekwoon. He simply couldn’t believe they were interested in his work.

 

“I’ve heard your music,” Sanghyuk said. “I’m not surprised at all.”

 

“You’re biased.”

 

“Do you think I wouldn’t tell you if your music wasn’t good?”

 

Taekwoon laughed. “I’m sure you would.”

 

Sanghyuk felt swimmy in the head, as if coming down with a fever. He smiled all the time. “And what about Hakyeon? Was he happy to hear the news?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Why aren’t you celebrating with him then?”

 

“Because I’m with you.”

 

This made Sanghyuk blossom with good feeling. “That seems hardly a good reason.” He blamed the wine for his daring as well as the way Taekwoon looked at him. It was a good way to be looked at, like he was the sole light of the universe.

 

“There are things about Hakyeon you have to understand,” Taekwoon said.

 

“Sure, why don’t you tell me these things?”

 

“Well, first: he’s married.”

 

“Of course! He’s your husband.” He was kicked under the table. “If you’re running around with a married man, then why does he care what you do? Seems hardly fair.”

 

“That’s just it. I told you he’s strange.”

 

Taekwoon was quiet as he lighted two cigarettes, musing over the table as he thought a long time. Then, “I don’t want to put him down, because he’s helped me a great deal and I _do_ care for him. In a far off way. He’s handsome and he’s kind, but I won’t pretend that there’s something between us when there isn’t’.”

 

He paused, and said, “And I would hate for you to think my interests are elsewhere.”

 

“Opposed to?”

 

“You.”

 

Sanghyuk sat quietly. Suddenly, it was all too much: the wine and the restaurant and the severity of it all. He put his hand on the table, then moved his hand over the table and touched Taekwoon’s fingers. He pulled away quickly and said, “Let’s leave.”

 

They came out of the restaurant and crossed the street, then continued up the street past the tinsel colored shops where the baubles had been brought out for Christmas time. It was odd to see the silver bells above shop windows when the remains of all the leaves still covered the sidewalks. Among the multi-colored trees and cigarettes ash in the sticky, cold gutters, there was the undeniable smell of fresh coffee, flowers sold in bunches on the street corners, all their satin petals limp with death.

 

Taekwoon stopped for a handful of magnolias. He said, “What do you think about going back to the apartment?”

 

“Already?”

 

“Sure. I’m thinking I wouldn’t mind another drink. We’ve already started and it’s early yet. That bottle back home is sounding better and better the longer we’re out here in the cold.”

 

“You really want to?”

 

“Well, don’t act so _surprised_.”

 

Sanghyuk laughed. “Maybe I only want to hear you say it.”

 

“Is that it? Well, it’s true. I want to go back to the apartment for another drink—with you, mind you. And I want to spend the evening where we can be warm and alone and not worry about anything.”

 

“With _me_?” Sanghyuk pestered, dramatically. “If you _really_ want to, then OK. I can make time for you. But, I don’t think I can drink anymore.” Already, he was light on his feet, feeling silly in the head.

 

They loitered outside shop windows, pointing to few items. There was a lovely, expensive jacket Taekwoon liked very much and a commodity store where old advertisements for war bonds still stuck in the windows. Then they came down the street, where the apartment building was dark and cold and so unlike the city.

 

On the stoop, Taekwoon did not make to unlock the door. He put his hand on Sanghyuk’s arm when he reached for the keys in his own pocket.

 

“What is it?”

 

“I don’t know,” Taekwoon said.

 

“Do you feel all right?”

 

He looked ready to say something, then shook his head. But inside, by the letter boxes, Sanghyuk stopped Taekwoon before he went upstairs.

 

He said, “Are you tired?”

 

“No. —It’s all right.” He looked at the flowers in his hand and laughed, as if having forgot buying them. “These are for you. To repay you for the tulips.”

 

He made to leave and was stopped, again, by Sanghyuk’s persisting hand. He took Taekwoon by the arm and joined him on the steps, unwittingly putting him against the railing.

 

“Tell me. We can do this another night, if you want.”

 

“I want you to come upstairs with me,” Taekwoon said, softly. “You _are_ coming upstairs?”

 

“Yes.”

 

They did not move.

 

“What are you thinking about, Taekwoon? You’re thinking about something, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m thinking I’d like to kiss you.” He lowered his eyes and then his face, so he was staring at their feet. “But I also think that, maybe, it’s impolite to say that.”

 

Taekwoon motioned, weakly, to the door as if he had already accepted Sanghyuk’s dismissal. “Out there, I was thinking I wanted to kiss you. Then I thought: he will push me away if I do. Even if it’s something you want, you would have pushed me away.”

 

Sanghyuk could not help but laugh. He took Taekwoon’s face into his hands. “You’re right. I would have pushed you away, but not because I didn’t want you to kiss me.”

 

“But because you’re terrible.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

They smiled at each other.

 

“Come here,” Sanghyuk said. He put his arm around Taekwoon’s middle and brought him to his chest. Taekwoon did not fuss. His palms lay flat against Sanghyuk’s shirt. That was when the door came open and a tenant from the top floor stepped in. Sanghyuk pulled away at once and Taekwoon, left floundering, with a strange look on his face, went up the stairs. He did not have to motion for Sanghyuk to follow.

 

“Come here,” Sanghyuk said, again.

 

“No. Not here.”

 

On the third floor, alone again, Sanghyuk pressed Taekwoon’s back to the door as Taekwoon took hold of the knob. He was smiling when he said, “You’re ridiculous.”

 

“Drunk, maybe. But not ridiculous.”

 

The door came open suddenly. If it had not been for Sanghyuk’s arm around Taekwoon’s waist, they would have toppled in, one by one, onto the floor.

 

Surprised, but not angered, Hakyeon watched them. By the look of his careless appearance, he had been waiting a while. From inside, Sanghyuk could hear the radio.

 

“Oh,” Hakyeon said. “I’m sorry.” He spoke deeply, quietly, as if thinking all the time.

 

Sanghyuk offered his hand and a hello, both overlooked and awkwardly given. He shied away. “I’ll come by another time,” he said to Taekwoon. He did not fail to spot the way Taekwoon’s hand reached for him. He felt the grip of Taekwoon’s fingers around his arm. He squeezed, then released.

  
“All right,” Taekwoon said.

 

Hakyeon came forward, stepping in the doorway where the three of them came together. “I should be the one to go. I’ve been waiting around and it’s awfully late.” He touched Taekwoon’s face gently. “I never come by so late, do I?”

 

“It’s all right,” Sanghyuk said. “I have work in the morning and, well, I only live downstairs.” He looked away from Hakyeon’s sudden glare. “Really, I have to go.”

 

“If you must,” said Hakyeon.

 

“Yes, I must.”

 

“Good-night,” said Taekwoon. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

 

“In the morning, sure.”

 

 

 

 

 

But later, very late in the night, the window of Sanghyuk’s bedroom came open. He felt the icy coolness of the wind and heard the rustle of the leaves, all the dead things in the air and on the fire escape, and knew before fully waking that Taekwoon was in the room with him.

 

He did not turn on the bedside light. Instead, he said: “Did he finally leave?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Are you upset?”

 

He was terribly upset and equally ashamed by it. “No.”

 

“You can tell me.”

 

“I’m not at all.”

 

“You’re a rotten liar.”

 

In the dark of the room, lighted only by the window, Sanghyuk watched Taekwoon cross the room and come to the light. He turned it on.

 

“Don’t make it a habit to intrude,” Sanghyuk said, carelessly, feeling the urge to hurt for he felt hurt himself.  
  


  
Taekwoon sat on the bed. “I won’t stay long.”

 

“Does he absolutely hate me?”

 

“In his own way, but, please, understand. His way isn’t any _real_ way. He hates without thought.”

 

“Why do you keep him around?”

 

Taekwoon said, below a whisper, “I’m afraid if I tell you, you’ll think badly of me. You’ll think I’m tacky and won’t ever think of me again.”

 

“Tell me anyway. And lie down.” Sanghyuk moved to make room. He patted the bed beside him. “Lie down and tell me everything you want to, but not anything you want to keep secret. But don’t keep it from me because you think I will hate you. I won’t.”

 

“You’re sure about that?”

 

“Pretty sure.”

 

Taekwoon lay on the bed with his ankles crossed, his hands low on his belly and above his belt. “Why are you so curious?”

 

“It’s normal, isn’t it? You say you want to kiss me, but then kiss him instead. I want to know why.”

 

“How do you know I kiss him?”

 

Sanghyuk pulled a face. “It’s obvious. Don’t give me that look—that look like the whole world is against you. Just tell me, so that I know, and I won’t feel so hurt about it anymore.”

 

In the quiet, in the light, Taekwoon moved his head onto Sanghyuk’s pillow. Their bodies lay apart, as if a world lay between them.

 

When finally Taekwoon spoke, he spoke with halting thoughtfulness, as if knowing well that he must pick each word carefully. He did so with a type of love comparable to a mother; he did not want to hurt or to be hurt. He wanted only to tell the truth.

 

His name was Cha Hakyeon and though it was expected this name would not pique an interest, he belonged to a well-off family from the north. In 1950 his father had fought and died in the Korean war, leaving behind an overwhelming amount of money, which had been used terribly the past ten years with little gain; and the sole beneficiary of that frivolous spending had been Taekwoon. At least over the last three years.

 

“He’s lonely,” Taekwoon said. “ _I’m_ lonely. And he thinks money can fix it and I won’t stop him from thinking so.”

 

“I thought he was married.”

 

“He is, but that doesn’t mean the woman makes him happy. And don’t go thinking wild thoughts, because it isn’t anything what you might suspect. I’m not _sleeping_ with him. At least, not anymore.”

 

Taekwoon sat at the end of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He said, miserably, “I get weekly allowances in return for my company and, sometimes, my intimacy. But not even that—not anymore, because I don’t like to be intimate.”

 

Taekwoon looked over his shoulder. “So, what do you think?”

 

“I don’t know _what_ to think.”

 

Wrapped in that cold silence with the moon bright between the trees, Sanghyuk watched the dark outside the window. He touched Taekwoon with the toe of one foot, whispering: “Are you happy with him?”

 

“Don’t ask me that.”

 

“If you aren’t happy, why do you stay with him?”

 

Taekwoon lifted his head and stared for a long, hard moment over his shoulder. Then he came up the bed and lay beside Sanghyuk, once again. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. I’m all right, don’t think I’m not. He doesn’t make me do anything I don’t want to. And I’m happy enough to focus on my work.”

 

“I guess that’s all that really matters.”

 

“Sure. And being here with you, right now, is swell too.”

 

Sanghyuk pulled the blankets up to his mouth. He smiled behind them. “You’re stupid. But you’re wonderful, too.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

“I mean it! A wonderful composer. Maybe not the smartest, but. . .” He laughed as he was hit, feeling the sudden and deep urge to reach out and grab hold of Taekwoon. He wanted badly to kiss him as he had wanted to, just hours before. But the moment had passed. What lay out between them now was a moment he did not want to come back to. So he lay without moving, smiling at Taekwoon as the night became dawn. Together, they listened to the birds wake in the trees and watched the light come into the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

Taekwoon never mentioned Hakyeon again and Sanghyuk never asked why. He accepted the locked window on nights he climbed the fire escape and did not pester Taekwoon on days he had spotted them in the streets. In that way, it was as if they really were old friends: they did not pass the invisible boundaries laid out on the ground, but often, when alone, pierced beneath that surface so easily, without qualm, that it was not uncommon to find them alone until morning, speaking of things they never spoke aloud.

 

On a rainy Friday afternoon, Sanghyuk sat with a book on the fire escape, smoking in the cold. His breath came in long, white clouds, swept away by the rain. He was not reading, but rather listening to the music from the upstairs window. Taekwoon was calling down to him, telling him of the university professor who had listened to him play; he had referred Taekwoon to a musical producer. They wanted to print his work for the students.

 

“I think I can comfortably call myself a composer now.” He came out of the window and called over the rail, “What do you think?”

 

“You already know what I think.”

 

“Yes, but say it again.”

 

Sanghyuk laughed. “No! I can’t just _tell_ you what you want to hear, when you want to hear it.”

 

“Sure you can! Don’t I mean enough to you to say these things?”

 

Sanghyuk flushed a deep red. “Did I ever tell you how much you meant to me?”

 

“No, not in so many words. But I know it must be a lot.”

 

Sanghyuk wanted badly to slip away. Had he been so transparent that Taekwoon—who hardly noticed anything—had noticed such a thing? He closed the book.

 

Taekwoon had gone back inside and called out through the window now, “Anyway. I’ll be home about seven. Be ready then—for dinner.”

 

But that night, seven o’clock came, and Taekwoon did not. He called from a payphone twenty minutes after the hour; it was still raining, and raining very hard. The noise of the street and the wind on the line did not permit his voice to carry.

 

He shouted, “I won’t be able to get back anytime soon. The roads are all blocked off.” There had been a collision somewhere uptown and Taekwoon, who had a fear of the underground and would not ride public transportation, refused to walk in the storm.

 

“I’ll make it up to you, all right?”

 

“I don’t mind,” Sanghyuk said, quietly. On the table lay a handful of violets. “We’ll go out another time.”

 

“If you’re still awake later, leave the window open, and I’ll come by.”

 

But he did not show that night either.

 

Alone and in bed, unable to sleep for he felt troubled by the time and the sheer silence above him, Sanghyuk went up the fire escape. Taekwoon’s bedroom window was dark as night, but opened a crack, Sanghyuk could hear the sounds of the radio. He went inside.

 

Taekwoon sat alone in the parlor with his hands covering his eyes. He appeared to be sleeping.

 

Sanghyuk crouched beside him. He touched Taekwoon’s leg and whispered his name.

 

He was not asleep and did not startle at the sound. He lowered his hands and blinked tiredly, looking into Sanghyuk’s face, silently. Then, hardly above a whisper, he said: “Somehow, I knew you could come to-night.”

 

“Is that why you left the window open?”

 

“It might be. But I won’t pretend to know.”

 

“Is something the matter? Is that why you didn’t come downstairs? Because something’s bothering you.”

 

“I ran into Hakyeon on the way up.” Taekwoon paused there, as if this fact alone explained it all. He made as if to stand, but fell further into the chair. “I told him I didn’t think I could commit my time to him anymore. Do you know what he said?”

 

Sanghyuk waited.

 

“He offered to buy half my songs and wrote me a check. He said I ought to think about it. Then he left.”

 

Sanghyuk sat on the floor at Taekwoon’s feet. He brought his legs up beneath himself as he thought of what to say. All the time his stomach turned, as if having been struck by a heavy hand. He rest his cheek to the arm of the chair, and absently, with a gentleness that verged on meek, Taekwoon ran his fingers through Sanghyuk’s hair.

 

“Why did you tell Hakyeon that?” He was breathless with a desperation he had never known before. His heart came up into his mouth and settled there. “Was it because of me?”

 

“Not entirely, but. —Yes, because of you.” Taekwoon pushed and pushed kindly, until Sanghyuk no longer lay his head against the chair. Then he rose and said, “But I don’t want to talk about it to-night. I want to sleep, because I have a headache and I don’t feel well.”

 

“Should I go?”

 

“I don’t want you to, but, yes, probably you should.”

 

“I don’t mind staying.”

 

They stood together, in that deep, thoughtful silence, where the radio played to ears that did not listen. It was a kind of silence kept still as breath in the cold. Taekwoon came forward and rest his face against Sanghyuk’s throat. He stayed there, with his arms at his sides, their bodies touching but their hands apart, and did not say anything.

 

Then he went to bed.

 

Sanghyuk waited in the parlor. He sat in the chair Taekwoon had sat in and listened to the radio for some time. Then he turned it off and went home.

 

 

 

 

 

It was late November and the rain had stopped, but the cold came like a terrible dream and settled in all the spaces autumn had opened. It was the last week of the festival; and no one had come.

 

Sanghyuk daydreamed over the snack bar with his chin held in one hand. He watched the clouded sky and the bow of the trees. Their long, skeletal branches leaned nightmarish against the grey of the sky. Unperturbed and deeply tired, it was a long time before Sanghyuk realized someone was at the booth, watching him with an equal interest as he had watched the trees. And once brought from the daydream, Sanghyuk laughed, for it was Taekwoon. He was dressed in a heavy wool coat, a newsboy cap pulled over his eyes.

 

“I was out for a walk,” Taekwoon said, “and somehow, I ended up here.”

 

“Did you miss me?”

 

“Terribly.”

 

Sanghyuk came round the counter with his arms outstretch, and quickly, with comical force, he pulled Taekwoon to his chest. “Tell me you were thinking about me.”

 

“I was thinking about you.”

 

“I knew it.”

  
They went out into the park, where the ground was damp and charcoal grey. When Taekwoon put his hand into Sanghyuk’s hand, there was no comment about it. But rather, they walked as if they had always been that way: two men in love who dared not say it aloud.

 

“I was thinking to-night, we ought to go to the movies.”

 

Sanghyuk agreed. “We haven’t done that yet.”

 

“There’s a lot we haven’t done.”

 

Taekwoon pulled Sanghyuk to the Ferris wheel. It stood still and lonesome, like something abandoned; Wonsik was asleep on his feet, leaning against the control panel. It took only a nudge, a smile with cheeks colored a primrose pink, for Wonsik to start the ride. He beamed all the time, watching Sanghyuk with a knowing smile that was every bit uncomfortable as it was sweet.

 

He leaned over to Sanghyuk’s ear as he fastened the belt in place. He whispered, “Who’s this fellow?”

 

Sanghyuk shook his head.

 

“Tell me about it later.”

 

Taekwoon pressed himself into Sanghyuk’s side and stayed that way, with his hand on Sanghyuk’s leg and his head tipped back, as if to watch the sky come close as they rose up and up, and then descended.

 

On a whim, feeling bright and brazen, Sanghyuk said, “What would you say if I said that I love you.”

 

Taekwoon hummed, then seemed to think. “I would say I already knew.”

 

“Well—that’s a load of crap.”

 

“I knew it.”

 

“ _How_.”

 

“You’re very obvious.”

  
Sanghyuk scoffed. “Take that back.”

 

“No.” Taekwoon turned to him and laughed. It was a handsome laugh, more handsome than all the times before. His eyes lighted up as if the sun had grafted its light there. “I can’t tell if you’re seriously upset, but it’s all right. Because I love you too. That’s how I knew you loved me, because I love you and love isn’t something you can ignore. I knew it all the time.” He took Sanghyuk’s hand. It was not a show of affection, but a reflex. He took it and held it between both his hands and said, still facing the sky, “That’s why I talked with Hakyeon.”

 

“Will you still see him?”

 

“I don’t know. I can’t make any promises right now.”

 

Sanghyuk looked away. All the lights of the festival were dim and far away. Up there, where the air was much colder, he felt lonesome but not alone; he gripped Taekwoon’s hand very hard.

 

“Does it upset you?” Taekwoon asked.

 

“A little. But not much.”

 

“Because you know I love you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You know it now.”

 

“I know it.”

 

Taekwoon took Sanghyuk’s face between delicate hands and he touched his neck, down onto his shoulders. He touched his chest and pulled at the collar of his shirt, until their mouths met, with the wind cold and heavy against them. He kissed Sanghyuk in a way Sanghyuk had never been kissed, and he felt it, there, in that moment, with the world below them, that—yes, Taekwoon loved him very much.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, i'm here to chat anytime ~ ♡ i appreciate you all  
> ps. i have two more c/mmissions coming this way, so pls anticipate


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